


Midwinter

by GloriaMundi



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-12-14
Updated: 2002-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-05 18:58:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/45048">Westering</a>. The winter solstice is the longest night of the year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midwinter

The lamps blazed all down the long hall. It was midwinter, the longest night of the year, and even immortality dreads the dark. So the wine flowed more freely than was usual, and the lamps were turned higher, and voices rang brighter. There was a brittleness to it all, because of the threat in the East.

Boromir was seated on the other side of the long table, closer to the fire than Aragorn. He conversed with those either side of him, his eyes cast down, the very picture of courtly behaviour. Again and again through the meal, he would pause as though Aragorn's gaze on him were tangible. Sometimes he would raise his head, and meet that gaze as though by chance, and smile; sometimes he would turn away.

It seemed to Aragorn that the Steward's son was torn between choices. Had he imagined the answering heat in Boromir's kiss? He knew he had not.

Sometimes, in turn, Aragorn felt Arwen's gaze upon him, brushing his awareness like a feather over skin. She sat by her father at the head of the table, and smiled and laughed with her brothers and her friends.

Of course she would expect fidelity once they were wed: of course, having her, he would have no other. "Chastity," she had said to him many years before, "is not a condition that becomes mortal men." She had been smiling.

And this afternoon, too, she had smiled at him: that same smile, as they walked through the winter-quiet gardens. "He is coming back through the wood," she had said, gazing into the empty fountain with an enigmatic smile that mirrored her grandmother's.

Aragorn had not needed to ask of whom she spoke. He could not imagine being able to hide his feelings from Arwen, and she seemed amused by his gradual, unintended fascination with Boromir.

"It will be good to see him returned safely," he had conceded, smiling back at her.

"Perhaps," had suggested Arwen, "you should go out and meet him."

"He is a warrior, and needs no aid I might give him." He had tried to keep the regret from his voice.

Amusement had caught in the corner of Arwen's smile, and she resembled Galadriel more than ever. "It is midwinter, and the night falls cold and early. All mortal men seek comfort at this time."

That, thought Aragorn now in the warm light of the hall, was the kernel of it. Whatever Arwen needed -- wanted -- from him, it was not comfort. Perhaps, wiser than himself, she saw that he needed comfort too: and she, whose passions ran in longer tides, could not give it to him.

He raised his glass and toasted her, and felt Boromir's eyes on him: when he turned, Boromir was frowning.

Arwen left the Hall once dinner was over. She stopped by his seat and wished him a pleasant evening, and her guileless smile made him want to laugh and embrace her. It would not have been seemly, so he must put his gratitude and love and amusement into a smile to match her own.

And then she was gone, and Boromir was staring at him over the gold-rimmed edge of a goblet. The lamplight made his hair glow. For a moment, as Aragorn looked back at him, there might as well have been no one else in the Hall.

Then Glorfindel paused to greet him. If he had noticed Aragorn's distraction, he did not mention it. They exchanged courtesies, and Glorfindel went on, lengthening his stride to catch up with Legolas as the Silvan Elf went through the great arched doorway.

Aragorn turned back to the table, still smiling. But Boromir's seat was empty.

***

Rivendell had many rooms, and many pleasant diversions to entertain its Lord's guests. Boromir might have sought solace in the Hall of Fire, where there was singing and laughter and more wine. He might have slipped away with some newfound companion. Aragorn chuckled ruefully. Perhaps, after all, Boromir had not wanted... Or perhaps he had thought Aragorn's affections indivisible, taken his attentions for flattery rather than honesty.

If Boromir had trusted him, had believed the unspoken pledge out there in the dusk beside the sunken tombs, then Aragorn knew where he would find the other man.

The crescent moon cast a soft, cold light through the high windows of the gallery. The colours of Isildur's victory were dulled: the shards of Narsil were leaden: all colour was leached from the clothes, skin, hair of the man who stood, head bent in thought, before the statue.

Aragorn watched him for a moment, conscious of the irrevocability of this. If he walked away quietly now, they need never speak of it again. The need, the response, the mutual fire would still lie there between them, but they would bury the embers of the afternoon.

"Boromir," he said, voice soft.

The other man's head came up sharply, as though he had not expected Aragorn to seek him here. But Aragorn remembered their first meeting back in the autumn, when the afternoon sun was still warm and dusk came later. He remembered the look that had sparked between them then: the afterimage of that look had glowed, unexamined, since then, until this afternoon with the West ablaze and Boromir cold and comfortless.

Aragorn moved to stand behind Boromir, a decent distance. He would not force this.

"I thought you were ... I thought you would have other calls on your time." Boromir did not turn to face him. There was a trace of laughter in his voice, as though he found his own assumptions amusing.

"No," said Aragorn simply. "It is your company that I seek."

Faster than he had expected -- fast enough that he had to fight back the instinct to defend himself -- Boromir turned and closed the distance between them with one soft, determined step. His hands came up to Aragorn's shoulders. Aragorn let himself be held, but his own hands stayed at his sides. He would wait for Boromir to crave his touch.

Boromir leant forward. He kissed Aragorn as though it were a demand. Give me your body. Give me your kisses, your desire, your need, your fulfilment. Be mine.

Aragorn kissed him back eagerly, taking the demands, answering them with his own. It felt ... easy, comfortable, as though they had never needed to circle one another, waiting for a smile or a glance to reveal the fire inside.

He let Boromir's hands grip his shoulders, move against his collarbones, press warmly against the velvet and silk of his tunic. Somehow -- Boromir had not pulled at him -- they were closer, and the familiar tingle of nearness began to wash over him. He was making soft, eager sounds into Boromir's kiss, and Boromir's breathing was heavier as his hands pressed along Aragorn's ribs, round to his back, no longer a buffer between them.

Aragorn thought that it would be easy to stay here in the cold gallery and be warmed by Boromir's heat. Easy, but lazy; and someone else might come to meditate upon Narsil. "My rooms are comfortable," he murmured against Boromir's lips.

"Then let us go to them," said Boromir. Aragorn could see his smile clearly, even in the dim moonlight.

For a long moment neither of them moved. Then Boromir stepped back, letting his hands fall away from Aragorn's shoulders. "You must lead me," he said.

Aragorn inclined his head, smiling to himself, and turned towards the back staircase. Boromir was close behind him, almost close enough to touch: close enough to stumble against him deliciously if he halted on the unlit stair.

Aragorn reminded himself of comfort, and ease, and courtesy. Without looking back, without any contact, he led the other man through shadowy, wood-panelled hallways until they reached his door.

Hand on the latch, Aragorn paused. He wanted to reassure Boromir that his choice was not yet fixed. "You are -"

Boromir's mouth covered his, answering him comprehensively, answering several of the questions he might have asked. Aragorn held back from the kiss. He braced himself against the closed door and against Boromir's embrace. When Boromir drew back uncertainly, he said, "Just come inside."

The room smelt of scented wood, with a faint underlay of pipe smoke. The windows were shuttered against the night, and the lamps had not been lit, but fire flickered in the grate. Aragorn turned and closed the door behind Boromir, and with the same smooth movement, embraced him.

Boromir sighed as though he had come home at the end of a long, weary journey. He leant towards Aragorn and simply rested against him, forehead to shoulder, for a long moment. Aragorn stood, breathing slowly, and felt amazement knot and swirl under his skin. He had not hoped to have this man here, alone with him in his rooms. It had been ... years, yes, since he had invited anyone to his bed in Rivendell.

Boromir looked up at him, and Aragorn saw his own sudden shyness reflected. It made him smile, and Boromir's answering smile reminded him of why he had wanted this. He wrapped his arms more tightly around Boromir's broad shoulders, feeling the other man's muscles shift under his hands as Boromir embraced him in return. They were kissing again, more passionately than before. Aragorn leant into the kiss hungrily, then gasped against Boromir's open mouth as their bodies pressed closer and he felt the other man's arousal against his own. Desperate to get closer, he pushed his hips against Boromir. Boromir moaned into the kiss, tongue never ceasing its relentless invasion, and his hands slid down Aragorn's back and pulled him closer.

Aragorn craved Boromir's touch on his skin as though it would quell the burning, which he knew it would not. The room seemed summer-warm. Boromir rocked against him, still kissing him frantically as though they could melt together. Aragorn's blood roared in his ears like the sea. He opened his eyes and met Boromir's hot green gaze. There was no shyness in that look: there was passion to match his own, and some amusement, too, at their mutual unravelling.

"I want to see you naked," he said to Aragorn, pulling back from the kiss. His lips were fascinatingly reddened and swollen.

"I want to feel you naked," Aragorn said without thinking. His own boldness -- he was not in the habit of saying such things to his infrequent lovers -- made him smile. He shivered and inhaled sharply at the feel of Boromir's hands on the lacing of his shirt. His own hands seemed to be more familiar with the art of undressing another man than he had expected. Between white-hot flashes of sensation as Boromir's fingers touched his skin, he found himself unlacing and unbuttoning, sliding his own calloused fingertips along Boromir's ribs and making him flinch, feeling the steady furnace-heat of Boromir's body against his hands.

Then Boromir's hand slid beneath the waistband of his breeches, and he gulped a ragged breath and bent to kiss and lick at Boromir's collarbone, pushing the unlaced tunic aside and letting it fall to the floor. Boromir's hand on him was cool and clever -- he has done this before, and more than once, thought Aragorn distantly -- and Aragorn wanted that touch all over his body. He ducked his head lower, teasing a nipple with his tongue and teeth, exulting in Boromir's moan.

Boromir's hands were sliding his breeches down over his hips, and he gasped as cool air washed over his aching erection. His own hands clenched on the suddenly-unfamiliar fastenings of Boromir's clothes. Then Boromir was pulling away -- Aragorn made a protesting noise -- dropping to his knees, acting the perfect valet as he unbooted Aragorn, left foot then right foot, balancing him as he swayed. The floor was cold, despite the rugs under his bared feet. Finally he was naked, breeches kicked away, skin quivering with cold except where Boromir's hot hands touched him. Boromir, dizzyingly, was looking up at him from where he knelt, grinning up at him, as his lips closed over Aragorn's cock.

Everything else stopped being relevant. Aragorn's eyes flickered closed, and his head tipped back. His fingers combed through Boromir's thick, straight hair, longing to pull his head closer. He could hear his own harsh breath. Then Boromir's tongue slid confidently along the underside of his cock and Aragorn's eyes snapped open in amazement.

"Never ... oh, Boromir ..."

He felt the other man laugh around his erection, and it almost undid him. "Stop!" he gasped, pulling Boromir's head back, pulling away from that exquisite, dizzying heat.

Boromir looked up at him, lips more swollen than before. Aragorn wanted to sheathe himself in the other man's mouth and rush towards a blinding release: but there were things he wanted more.

"Not like ... I need you, Boromir." Aragorn paused, breath still unsteady. He was unaccustomed to asking for such things. But Boromir, he knew, wanted this -- all of this -- as much as he did himself. "I want to feel you inside me."

Boromir flushed. His eyes were very dark in the flickering firelight. "Oh, yes," he breathed. He rose slowly and gracefully, and Aragorn's breath caught at the simple play of light on flesh. Boromir kissed him, and Aragorn tasted the salt of his own flesh on the other man's tongue: it made him moan and run his hands down the ridges of Boromir's torso.

"Bed," Boromir whispered, breaking the kiss again. "You do have a bed?"

Aragorn's laugh was unsteady. "I do," he said, releasing Boromir. They were still, ridiculously, by the outer door. He took a candlestick from the mantle and crouched naked to light the candles at the fireplace, as warmed by Boromir's gaze as by the glowing coals. At the other doorway he paused, pulling aside the curtain there, and looked back over his shoulder. Boromir was staring at him as though ... Aragorn shivered. The raw passion in his friend's gaze scorched him, and he craved that fire more than anything.

"Come, Boromir," he said, and held the curtain aside for Boromir to precede him.

The bedchamber was somewhat colder than the outer room, but Boromir did not hesitate to peel off the rest of his clothes. Aragorn set the candlestick down by the bed, where the flickering light would best illuminate Boromir as he undressed. He felt as if he had been starved and were being shown a banquet. Boromir's body was as perfect as a statue, but far more human. Scars glowed on his ribs and flanks: he was gloriously erect, and Aragorn swallowed, thinking of how their bodies would fit together, how it would feel ...

Boromir was on the bed beside him, as naked as Aragorn, hands running across Aragorn's chest and shoulders even as Aragorn reached for him. They kissed again, messily, mouths sliding away from one another to taste each other's skin. Aragorn licked firmly at the hollow of Boromir's neck, tasting the saltiness of his flesh and the unique tang of his sweat. His hand swept down over Boromir's chest and abdomen, fingers wrapping firm and confident around Boromir's hard, hot erection, thumb sliding across the wet head. Boromir made a choking noise and pulled Aragorn down to lie beside him across the bed.

He was irresistible. Aragorn twisted free of the embrace and brought his head down to Boromir's groin, tongue poking out to swirl, ever so delicately, between his own fingers. Boromir moaned, and his hand curled around the back of Aragorn's head, not pushing him down or pulling him away: approving, encouraging, aroused.

"I just wanted ... to taste you," Aragorn said between caresses. He yearned to take Boromir deep in his throat and lick and suck and stroke him until he could hold back no more. That would not assuage the ache in his own body, not now. And Boromir, it seemed, craved more as well: his hand gradually eased Aragorn's head back.

They stared at each other across the length of Boromir's body. Neither man was hiding anything any more. History and heritage were irrelevant beside this shared heat. Aragorn's breath caught at the simplicity of Boromir's smile. He slid back up to lie next to the other man, capturing his lips in a surprisingly gentle kiss.

"Boromir ..."

"Have you anything to ... to ease the way?" Boromir asked, eyes fixed on Aragorn's.

"Here," said Aragorn, reached around to fumble on the dusty shelf behind the bed until his fingers encountered the smooth glass jar. "Hmm. It'll be cold."

Boromir laughed silently against his neck. "Then I'll warm it." He took the jar from Aragorn, opened it, scooped out a palmful of dark aromatic salve. Its resinous scent filled the room as the heat of his hand softened it.

"Let me ..." Aragorn dipped his fingers in the salve and began to stroke Boromir's cock, hand sliding more easily as he increased the speed of his caresses. He inhaled when a single slick finger circled his entrance and pushed gently into him. The penetration was slow and inexorable, and he was moaning and twisting by the time Boromir's finger was fully sheathed in his body. Another hot finger began to push in beside it, and simultaneously Boromir's other hand came down on his wrist.

"Enough," Boromir said raggedly, nudging Aragorn back onto the bed with his shoulder as one leg came across to straddle the other man. "Or there'll be nothing left for you."

Aragorn was beyond complaint. He lay, panting, and pushed up vainly against Boromir's tantalising fingers. It had been a long time since he had lain with another man, longer since he had given himself up like this: he had forgotten the exhilaration of being readied, though it seemed his body remembered how to respond.

There was a third finger now, pushing and stretching him, rubbing ever so gently against a place inside him and eliciting a flare of desire that would have brought him up off the bed if Boromir's weight had not been pinning him, firmly and thrillingly, in place. The feel of the man's body against his own was more exciting than he had ever imagined: surely, surely it had never been like this before? He writhed against Boromir's hand, opening himself up, moaning the other man's name, moaning as the fingers withdrew.

"Aragorn," said Boromir quietly, kneeling between his legs, opening him even wider with his gaze. Boromir's cock twitched against his stomach, and Aragorn shivered. He felt completely exposed, utterly at the other man's mercy, delirious with pleasure.

"Yes ... please ..."

Then Boromir was holding him and pushing against, pushing in, pausing as Aragorn's muscles tensed against the unfamiliarity of it: bending his head to lick slowly against Aragorn's mouth, licking away the discomfort, whispering Aragorn's name again and again until the tightness eased and Aragorn helplessly tilted his hips up to meet the slow, smooth slide inside.

There was a moment when neither of them moved, caught in the novelty of the sensation. Aragorn gazed up at Boromir: his eyes felt unnaturally wide open, and the feeling of Boromir surrounding him, and surrounded by him, was too strange for him to be sure whether or not it was pleasurable. There was pain, silver-red filaments of it radiating from the place where they were joined, but there was something, something else ... Then Boromir, still staring down at him, moved further, and the feeling melted into pleasure.

His own cock, brushing occasionally against Boromir's stomach as the other man changed the angle of his thrusts, ached for contact. Aragorn's hands were exploring everything he could reach of his lover's body: rubbing a nipple, stroking down the white welt of a scar, caressing and pulling and claiming. He freed one hand to stroke himself as well: but Boromir was faster, again, and caught his wrist. For a moment, Aragorn let himself remember that he should not let this man master him: but that no longer felt relevant, or true.

He had expected Boromir to be rougher, the first time. He had not expected Boromir to pin his wrists by his side: Aragorn tensed against that hold, against the red-silver burn as Boromir pushed further, harder, again, again. He could not touch himself, and Boromir was touching him deep inside, kissing him with incandescent kisses, making him burn. Aragorn ached for more. He was begging for more. He would have promised Boromir anything, anything at all, for a resolution of this agonising bliss that blazed higher and deeper and hotter by the moment. Boromir's tongue traced down his chest, teasing each nipple, catching against the line of hair that began at his solar plexus.

Somewhere inside, a cold clear fragment of his mind hoped that Boromir would ask for nothing but this. He would give Boromir this, and more of it, later. Later ... the image of Boromir writhing and burning under him drove the cold thought out again.

When Boromir began to climax, Aragorn could feel it building. He arched up into Boromir's thrusts, pushing himself further onto the other man's cock, back curved and vision blurring and Boromir's name tangled and disjointed on his tongue.

"_Now_," said Boromir, and his fingers uncoiled from Aragorn's right wrist. Aragorn reached urgently for his erection but Boromir's hand was there before him, fingers coiling back around him, thumb pressing irresistibly as he stroked once, twice.

Ecstasy swept over Aragorn like a wave of liquid fire. The room went white. He could hear his own cries, distantly. Boromir was hot inside him, breath like flame on his neck as he groaned, as Aragorn's body tightened and fastened itself impossibly around Boromir.

They lay for a while in one another's arms, sticky and sweating, with the blankets pulled halfway over them. Aragorn could not stop smiling. He stroked Boromir's sweat-dark hair, rubbed his thumb against the stubble on Boromir's jaw. Boromir curled around him, kissing him lazily. Aragorn could think of nothing that needed saying.

Eventually Boromir rose, unwrapping himself from Aragorn's embrace. He padded barefoot across the rug to the dresser, and poured water from the ewer into the basin. He brought the water and a cloth to the bedside, and washed sweat and semen from them both. The water was icy cold, but Boromir kissed as he cleaned, exploring Aragorn's body as though he were charting a conquered land, and Aragorn relaxed and let himself be claimed. When Boromir had finished, Aragorn held the covers back for him to come into bed. There was an ordinariness to the action that made him wistful: he did not think it would ever, really, be that way between them.

"What are we, now?" Boromir asked at last, his lips vibrating against Aragorn's neck. "You and I?" He did not raise his head to look at his lover.

"I would have you be mine," said Aragorn slowly, smoothing Boromir's skin over his bones and marvelling at the furnace within. "My lover, as you are mine: my friend, my comrade. I would have the memory of you like armour, and like a layer of silk, between me and the world."

"We are ... we cannot." He was choking on the words. "There is too much between us. All of Gondor lies between us! We cannot be ... none of that can be." Boromir tried to turn away, but Aragorn tightened his hold and would not let him go. Earlier, Boromir's strength had been greater than his, but perhaps he was too exhausted now to free himself.

"Not here, Boromir." Aragorn's voice was rough and slurred, as though he had been drinking. "Not here. Here, now, we are equals." Your blood is finer than mine, he thought. You have escaped Isildur's taint... But that was not an argument for tonight.

Boromir said nothing.

"Will you be mine, Boromir?" Aragorn asked again, moulding his body more firmly to Boromir's. "For I think I am yours."

Again, Boromir's speed astonished him: but he lay and let Boromir press him into the warm linen, covering him, mouth hot on his, knee nudging its way between his thighs. Aragorn abandoned himself to his lover's ravishing kiss, delighting in the sensation of being claimed.

"If you are mine," Boromir said huskily, good humour apparently quite restored, "then I suppose I might equally be yours." His hand moved lower in an intimate caress. "Now, let me remind --"

"Oh, _no_, my warrior. Now you are mine ..." And so saying, Aragorn twisted up, letting Boromir's own weight carry him back over until Aragorn was spread on top of him, stretching out languorously so that they were touching everywhere, feeling the slide of Boromir's skin against his.

"It grows late, Aragorn," Boromir said, laughing up at him. "Must we lie and talk all night, like children afraid of the dark?"

Aragorn grinned, feral, and leant down to lick deliberately along Boromir's neck until the other man's breath faltered.

"We have all night," said Aragorn at last. "And it is Midwinter. Let us seek fire where we may."

And let Boromir draw him down.

-end-


End file.
